


What I Want You To Know

by lovemyway (vesper93)



Series: Stolen Moments [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Desire, First Person, M/M, Masturbation, Secrets, Voyeurism, red shorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 03:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17216132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesper93/pseuds/lovemyway
Summary: In which Elio is left alone with those damn bathing shorts.





	What I Want You To Know

**Author's Note:**

> Another "Stolen Moment" - this is drawn heavily on the source material, however! Page 61-62 of the book if anyone is interested. I've just drawn it out a little bit more, and gone into Elio's head a bit more on a few things. So perhaps this is a not-quite-so-stolen moment, as we do get some of it in the book. 
> 
> You may have noticed as well that I have rearranged my stolen moments series so that they are in chronological order - do you like it like this? Or is it better if I just keep them the order I wrote them, but they jump through time book/film wise? 
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think! Again, written in 1st POV... something I don't do very often! 
> 
> xxx

Oliver was out, I was sure of it. I had heard him go out on his bike earlier, the wheels rattling over the gravel drive, heading towards the town, assumedly to pick up some more pages from his printer. Maybe he would put his head in the café that he frequented with some of the _uomini_ from the town, to see if they were playing a game of cards. Perhaps not, as it was only just after noon, and they perhaps didn’t go there until later in the day, in order to escape the oppressive overhead sun of the summer days. Maybe he would come straight back, to work on the pages that the printer had sorted for him. Or maybe he would go for a bike along some of the lanes that we hadn’t yet explored; maybe, maybe, maybe.  

So, I was on my own. Again. And I was thinking about Oliver. Again. I was convinced that nobody in the world thought of him as much as I did; knew as much about him as I did. Not even his own mother had studied him the way that I had; the bones under his skin, the way the muscles moved when he played volleyball, or when we went running together in the mornings. I knew what it sounded like when he showered, brushed his teeth, or when he got up to urinate in the middle of the night. I knew secrets about him that nobody else knew, and ones that others would have killed to know. Chiara would love to know some of the things that I know. That thought gave me a wild flash of satisfaction.

I spun on my heel a few times, sheer boredom allowing the walls to flash by. How had I existed before Oliver? It seemed as if there was only him to fill my time now. And when I was alone I was thinking about the last time I had been with him, or counting down the time until he would reappear into my vision again. I was sick with it. It had infected every part of my body, but no matter how much I tried I couldn’t bring myself to scrub myself clean. _Let me be sick forever_ , I prayed.

I flopped heavily on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. Would we go to the beach this afternoon? Or would we stay by the pool, in _heaven_ , our heaven? Or would the others come over again, and I would have to compete with them for Oliver’s attention? The thought made me blow out through my lips in frustration. I was greedy and wanted him all to myself.

I heard Mafalda moving slowly through the top of the house. I could envision that her arms were full of laundry, and I rolled onto my stomach to pick up my book, so it didn’t look quite so much like I was simply doing nothing. That would inevitably lead her to ask whether I was alright, and I didn’t want to answer questions right now. I wanted to be in my head, with Oliver, if I couldn’t be in reality with him.

Sure enough, a few moments later, ‘ _lavanderia, Elio.’_

Mafalda’s voice preceded her into the room. I didn’t move from my bed as I replied, ‘ _mettillo sulla scrivania, grazie_ ,’ telling her to put the washing on my desk, as there wasn’t room whilst I was lying sprawled on the cover of the bed.

She did so and left the room, and me, to my solitude and my own devices.

My eyes flicked up to where a fly was crawling over some of the peeling stucco on the wall, before I let my book drop to the floor. I hadn’t read a single word of it. I would wait until Oliver came back and then I would have him explain it to me instead. That was a much better idea. I heard Mafalda head back downstairs and five minutes later, out into the garden to enjoy her lunch in the sunshine, her morning chores finished.  

I think my parents were out as well, as I hadn’t heard them for some time; so I was the only person in the house. I got to my feet and headed through the adjoining doorway to Oliver’s room. I crept along on the balls of my feet, even though I was alone, I felt the need to be quiet. His room was still, and his laundry was in a folded pile on the end of his made bed.

Hanging on the end of his brass bedpost were his red bathing shorts. He hadn’t been swimming this morning, hence the reason they were here, and not drying in the sunshine on our shared balcony. Without really understanding why, my hand shot out towards the shorts and I picked them up. I would never normally go through someone else’s belongings without them giving me permission first, but somehow this was different. I didn’t know why. These were his _red_ shorts. There was something different about them to his yellow or green ones. These ones contained the passions of Oliver.

On impulse I brought the shorts up to my face and breathed in, trying to catch the scent of Oliver in the fabric. These shorts had been against his most intimate skin, and had been the closest to him of anything, other than perhaps a lover long forgotten. For a moment, I felt jealous of that fabric, having been pressed that close to him, to places I wanted to be pressed against. I was hard. Of course I was. I breathed in again, smelling what he smelt like without sun cream, or without the cling of chlorine that Anchise put in the pool on his skin. The smell that was in these shorts was purely _Oliver_. I put my head inside them, poking my tongue along the seams, desperate to find some part of him other than his smell, something more intimate and more personal. I wanted to _taste_. I wanted to put them in my mouth if I could, but I couldn’t fit all of the fabric between my lips and down my throat. I wanted to put them in my mouth in the same way that I imagined I might put Oliver in my mouth, and explore him with tongue and lips.

Instead I fell on his bed. Which was actually _my_ bed. It was so familiar to me, and yet it smelt of him. It was mine, and yet it was his. I pulled the shorts off my head as I lay on the cover, moving them from hand to hand between my fingers. Everything smelt of him; the duvet, the pillows, the sheet. It was my bed, and yet it was covered in him. Utterly drenched in his smell. He sweated in these sheets; he was naked within this bed. _My bed_. I wanted to let him know that I had been here too. And yet I wasn’t going to tell him, I wasn’t brave enough yet to speak. So instead I was willing to die, to die of the intensity surging through my body at that very moment.

I pulled my own bathing shorts off, and impulsively put his on instead. They were too big, of course they were, but it didn’t matter. I was wearing something of his, and I was wrapped in his smell. It felt like I was wrapped up in _him_. I pulled his pillow between my legs, as I lay on all fours. It felt like he could be between my thighs, as I rocked my hips back and forward, forward and back, preening like a cat, arching my back in delight at the thoughts rushing through my mind. I knew what I wanted him to do to me; it was the same thing he did to me in my dreams every night. I gasped out my desire to the cloth, clamping my thighs around it as I would if it were his body, trapping my hand between my thighs. I bit his pillow as I rutted against my hand and the smell of him in the fabric all around me. It didn’t take very long, and then my desires were as evident in his bed as they were in my head. I was satisfied by that.

So, the secret was out. There it was; from him to see on his shorts. So, what? So? So?

As I walked back to my room, having hung his shorts back up on the bedpost, as if I hadn’t just defiled the cotton against their will, I wondered what he would do in response. Would I dare to look at him tonight? My ears and eyes would be watching his every movement, even when he wasn’t in the same room as me.

I could go back and destroy the evidence of course. But my secret was now his secret too. It was shared, whilst it was also not shared. It was his turn to decide what to do with the knowledge I had given him.


End file.
